I could hardly decide where to go first. The Pike stretched before me—a carnival of wonders with exotic dancers, mock battles, and displays of invention. A camel train shuffled by, and further down, a man in a striped coat shouted over the crowd about a new beverage called Dr. Pepper. Curious, I paid my nickel and took a swig from a paper cone. The drink bit my tongue like ginger and settled into something richer and smoother—bold yet somehow familiar. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not, but I found myself taking another sip, then another, until I had drained the cup. It seemed like something worth remembering.
People were drinking from paper cones and spooning ice cream out of waffle-like shells—a novelty I’d never seen before. It seemed the entire world had come to St. Louis, and each nation had brought its best for show.
I lingered longest by the Grand Basin, where the great domes of the fair shimmered in the water’s reflection. Gondolas drifted lazily across the lake, and it seemed as though I could spend hours simply staring at the spectacle—so much light and noise condensed into one place. The Palace of Fine Arts stood proudly above it all, the words "Dedicated to Art and Free to All" carved into its limestone walls like a promise to the future.
The day stretched into evening, and as the lights blazed brighter, I felt a strange sadness settle in. So much of this was built to be torn down, and I wondered what would become of this grand illusion once the crowds vanished. Would anyone remember this feeling of awe, of being overwhelmed by the sheer ambition of it all?